


Stop the World, 'Cause I Wanna Get Off With You

by coldwarqueer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Anal Sex, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Mentions of Flowers/Sarge at the End, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Past Abuse, Past Abusive Relationship Mentioned, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 13:57:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2070909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldwarqueer/pseuds/coldwarqueer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"And everything you are, everything you were,</i><br/>Everything you’ve been’s not everything you’ll be."<br/>- Alienation, Morning Parade</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stop the World, 'Cause I Wanna Get Off With You

Your first day in the project is like any other job you've had, you suppose. You're given your armor, you're given a room number, you're given your access code. The day isn't anything special, and you didn't expect it to be. Your personal favorite moment is the looks you get when you just act like yourself. Everyone has always given you that look, no matter where you go.

You are shown your bunk by a tall man who doesn't speak, but he never tells you to shut up like so many others have before him. Your private quarters are cramped like you are a beast in a cage, but it's just like the army without a mandatory bunkmate. You have a feeling you'll miss having a mandatory bunkmate.

When everything is put away and you lay on your bed, closing your eyes and thinking about the days to come, and the Director's words echo in your mind that you need to choose a name to go by.

When you enter the mess hall you don't get any food, but you gravitate immediately to a man in white armor, intending to ask directions, to get intelligence and know-how. Your find yourself quite distracted by him.

Your gut clenches as you see his curled mustache ( _how quaint_ ) and the dimples in his cheeks, and _oh my, is that an accent_? He is amiable and smiles at you, and likes to tell jokes (jokes, what a foreign concept). You could sit there by his side for hours, listening to him talk, because that accent sounds good in your head.

"I say, I don't believe I got your name."

You smile and your heart flutters as you try to remember what your own name is. There is nothing holding you back but yourself. You don't want to scare this one off like you always do; you want there to be a filter for your thoughts this time.

"Flowe-" You stop yourself and remember you are not supposed to share real names, only code names. You recover quickly, "Florida."

"Well, Florida, I have to say it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Wyoming for me."

You smile and want nothing but to touch his mustache. You already know you have quite the penchant for rugged, handsome men with accents. "Pleased as punch to meet you as well, Wyoming."

You make an appointment to tell the director you have found your code name.

* * *

You find so many people share real names anyway, even if they aren't supposed to. You keep yours guarded because what reason do you have not to? It's not as if you don't trust these people, you could put your life in their hands and you have no doubt you would come out alive. But there is a part of yourself you want to stay hidden, a part of yourself you want to remain your own.

Wyoming is the only one you can see sharing that part if yourself with.

Wyoming, who stands over you when he wins a round in training and says "sorry", and you smile because he doesn't mean it for even one second. Wyoming, who is the only one who sits beside you during loose meal times, because no one else is nearly as entertaining. Wyoming, who tells you bad jokes and you laugh because why wouldn't you? Life is too short to not laugh at bad jokes.

"You don't say much, do you, old chap?" Wyoming asks you through a cup of coffee. His mustache is tickled and wet at the bottom and it drives you mad.

"Most pleasant folks don't like it when I talk," you muse, leaning back to gauge his reaction. You aren't sure if you want to act like yourself, because Wyoming is your only real friend here and you don't want to scare him away like you have so many others. "Something about how there's no filter for lewd thoughts."

Wyoming raises his eyebrows (those cute, bushy eyebrows that you want to pluck until they are a _decent_ size) at you and you just smile. It's forced. You don't want him to see that part of you. "Is there a demonstration of these lewd thoughts to come?"

You can tell when you are being given a challenge. "If you insist." You look past Wyoming at Maine who is sharpening his blades, and the first thing out of your mouth is, "Boy what I would give to ride that bronco out into battle."

Maine turns his head and stares at you with a look that almost sends shivers down your spine, and you realize that Wyoming is giving you the same look.

"I told you people don't like it when I talk." You notice a look in Wyoming's eye that _does_ send shivers down your spine, and you realize he is touching your knee. It's so tight you imagine he must mean to leave a bruise. You don't think you would mind if Wyoming bruised you.

"Well, let's not let there be any loose hanky panky here now, hm? This is where we _eat_ , Florida."

You make a small noise as he tightens his grip on your knee. You like it more than anything else. You glance over your shoulder, wondering if anyone else is seeing this. York is the only other person besides Maine in the room, and the only thing you say is exactly what comes to mind when you see a man as rugged as York, "He doesn't need to pick my lock, my vault is already wide open."

This time you are surprised by your own words and cover your mouth. You are embarrassed and York is choking on his coffee and Wyoming is holding your knee _tighter_.

"Ah, yes..." Your heart drops in your feet and you don't want to hear that tone in Wyoming's voice, the kind that tells you that you're creepy and weird and he doesn't want to hear you speak anymore. You grunt as his hand moves away and you realize just how tight he had been holding. There is bound to be a white print of his hand on your dark skin.

"Knock knock, Florida."

Your voice falters. Wyoming hates knock knock jokes. "Who's there?"

He leans in to your ear and whispers, "Me, in your quarters tonight, after dinner."

Your face is burning and you are glad for your dark complexion, because otherwise it would be painfully obvious how much you are blushing. All you can manage is a shaky, "You got it, I'm never late for a date."

* * *

You wait up in your bed for Wyoming to show up after dinner. You stare at the ceiling and think about what is to come. The only reason this could be happening is because Wyoming is _interested_ in you (and oh are you excited because you haven't been with anyone in so, so long), and you are counting down the minutes and the seconds until he knocks on your door, because then you can kiss that quaint, curled mustache, and you can smooth down his eyebrows that you want to pluck thin.

You are so absorbed in thinking about everything you will do that you almost miss the knock. Two distinct knocks, as if Wyoming is making a joke of it.

You have half a mind to call out 'who's there?' But you get up instead and crack open the door.

Wyoming is standing there out of his armor, not a plate of white body suit, and you are already hot as you spy his naked collar bone and think about what is about to happen. You smile at him, invite him in with a cordial voice and-

And the next thing you know you're thrown against the nearest wall, and Wyoming is kissing you, and it's white hot and rushed and not at all what you expected. You moan as he kisses down your neck, down your collar bone and tears your shirt apart (you breathe out a hot breath about how he's buying you a new one, and you can tell he doesn't care) and he's kissing down your chest to your pants that hang off your square hips. You are completely unprepared, but you can't help but not care. There is nothing that could have prepared you for this, and just how much you _want_ it.

Wyoming pulls your pants down and engulfs you in his mouth in one slick movement. His mouth is like warm velvet. You resist the urge to grab his mustache instead of his hair, and you are holding him so tight, and oh does that feel _good_ , it has been so long, you can't stop saying his name, "Wyoming, Wyoming, oh, oh-"

He is hot and wet and everything he needs to be to feel like the best you have ever had.

You are done in moments and you flush as he stares up at you, as if he expected you to pose a bigger challenge than a few measly moments, licking his lips like a petulant cat. It feels hard to breathe, and Wyoming is sliding up your body like a snake, constricting your breath and forcing you to inhale him like a drug.

"Which bronco do you want to ride into battle now, hm?"

You can't help but smile wide. "I don't know. Maine is a bigger horse, but you can get me there pretty fast. I still haven't made up my mind."

"I'll just have to correct that train of thought, won't I?"

* * *

Wyoming leaves you bruised and slick and breathless. As he is pulling his clothes on you turn on your aching side and stroke a finger down his bicep. He leans into your touch and you realize you have been smiling for so long your jaw aches.

"That might be the best darn rodeo I've been bucked into since basic training." Your chest is light and open and Wyoming is looking at you with eyes that sparkle and make you hot all over again.

"Just don't go around spreading your vault for anyone that can pick a lock." Wyoming gives you one last wayward touch, and then he is out the door and you feel used and empty and it feels _good_.

You breathe deep and turn over, smelling the pillow that tastes like sweat and humiliation, and every other emotion you shared with Wyoming. You have never felt so ravaged, so destroyed, so shredded.

You like it.

* * *

"What I would give to have that bouncy boy bouncing in my lap," you muse as you see Agent Washington eating his first meal on the ship. He has warmed up to Maine and North, and you're glad he has found his niche.

Wyoming grips your knee, and you smile because you know you are going to be ruined tonight. Wyoming is heated with every comment you make, it fuels a fire that consumes you both. You never want to stop making those comments, because then you might lose that roaring fire in your loins, that grips you tight and melds you to Wyoming like molten iron.

Wyoming's hand is inching up your thigh and wiggling at the clasps of your armor's codpiece. You bite back a moan as he touches you under the table, leaving your face red and hot and your body suit tight and slick at the crotch. You keep your mouth firmly shut as he fondles you like he owns you, like you are his to touch and his to toy with.

He doesn't let you cum. Instead he leaves you needy and wet for his fingers and you are itching to reach the end of this torture.

You love it.

* * *

You remember the first boy you dated.

He was brash and loud in public, He was like a firework with a magnificent explosion, and when you were alone He was sweet and touched you in ways you didn't know you could be touched. He was different, around others, around you. He never showed them the same face He showed you. And, oh, His words, the way He would talk to you.

Those words were your downfall.

He convinced you to crop your dreads and wear your hair short. He told you your friends were poisonous, and you left them for Him. He told you your military dream was doomed to failure, and _you may as well not even try, Butch, don't be stupid._ He told you He was the only one who mattered, and He made you believe it.

And you were young and sweet and only seventeen, and He owned you beyond comparison to a toy in a store. He owned you in a way that didn't sit right in your gut, and it made your abs soft and your biceps go smooth.

He owned you like you were no more a person than the bed you slept on.

The day you left for your first military term He told you you would die if you left, and very nearly did He convince you to desert and run away to a tiny planet at the edge of the galaxy where no one would find you; no one. He told you the UNSC lied and there was no war worth fighting, and you would die at the hands of some damn dirty alien who wanted you for nothing but a feast.

He filled you with fear and dread and anxiety and He pushed every button that was nearly broken on the fragile body He had turned you into.

He told you He would kill Himself if you left.

You walked out the door with your duffle, and without Him.

* * *

Wyoming doesn't own you like He did.

Wyoming owns you like a treasure that is left to roam free like a beast on the plains, he owns you like your friends used to own you back home, and he owns you like you _want_ to be owned because he is exactly the opposite of what your first boyfriend was.

Wyoming acts the same around everyone else as he does you, and you are refreshed by that. You are grateful for consistency, and you are glad that the private pieces of himself he shows you are not because he wants to own you, but because he wants you to own him. You want to utterly own him, the same way he owns you.

You have no regrets for your life. Your first boyfriend was a dangerous thing, because He talked to you the way the snake talked to Eve, and he cost you three years of your life that you could have spent with someone worth being owned by, someone who wanted to be owned in return.

Someone like Wyoming.

Regrets are not something you live with, because there have been too many space bars and too many broken condoms, too many "I love yous" that were never returned both given and received, and too many times have you grown out your dreadlocks only to cut them off again. You cannot bring yourself to regret any of them. You have been owned by too many people for you to regret any of them, because they were all real.

* * *

"Who did you leave back home?" York asks no one in particular as you all sit around drinking. You are looking at your beer and waiting for someone else to start, start the train of shame of people who have left loved ones behind for the lust of a military life full of medals and pain and glory and nightmares. You have had this conversation many times, with many different people, and the answers are always the same.

"Three cats." Wash.

"A good man." CT.

"A lot of booze and weed, and some broken hearts." South.

"A pretty southern bell and a dog." North.

"Nobody." Maine.

Carolina refuses to say, and everyone looks at Wyoming, who is looking glum. This is one of those nights where you are all warmed by the alcohol, minus Maine who doesn't drink, and still left cold by dialogue that only occurs in the military.

"Too many memories." Wyoming takes a drink and you can't help but touch his leg and let him know you are there, that he is not alone.

"What about you, Florida?"

All eyes are on you and you struggle to smile with the right combination of words. The words are different than any other time that you've been asked. They come out a lot colder than you had anticipated, "Someone not worth owning me."

* * *

Wyoming's possessive touch is like feathers and iron wrapped in one. He touches you like a bird of prey, wrapping his talons around your wrists and leaving you breathless in the air as you fly too high.

You don't sleep in your quarters anymore. It is just like the military where, when it is below freezing, you huddle with your bunkmate for warmth, and sometimes the touches last too long, and there are a lot of moments that feel less real than a dream.

It is just like the military, except now there are no freezing winters, and every night is no longer a night you fear for you life (because those are only before missions) and the touches that last too long are on purpose and the moments don't feel like dreams, because these are real and your dreams are not something to be spoken of in polite company.

You feel like an intruder in Wyoming's bed, but he never asks you to stop, and he especially never asks you to leave.

You are Goldilocks and Wyoming's bed is just the right amount of comfort, and his body is just the right amount of hot, and your life is _just right_ how it is right then.

* * *

You are too tall to sit in Wyoming's lap, but in the throes of passion and the heat of the moment you can never feel uncomfortable. Even as you toss your head back, mouth open, and his nose is at your jaw because he has to tilt his head back in order to kiss your neck, you know this is where you should be.

His hands are at your hip and you make two puzzle pieces that don't fit together, but damn are you trying, because even if he is not the right puzzle piece he is the closest you have found all your life.

* * *

Wyoming tears you to shreds if you so much as look at anyone else with lingering eyes, and it only makes you look more. It only makes you ache for his rough hands and to feel that power in his hips _again_.

Wash thinks you are legitimately interested in him, and North has to take him aside and explain the game between you and Wyoming, North has to talk about the sick fantasies that run through the heads of two soldiers who are too lonely and too desperate on a ship full of adults who don't even remotely have their lives together.

"Do you think there's something wrong with them?" you hear Wash ask, stuffing his face with food in a way that always makes you laugh. Wash says your laugh creeps him out.

North sighs. "We _know_ there's something wrong with them."

* * *

Wyoming doesn't sleep anymore. Gamma is in his head and he stops telling you bad jokes and he doesn't come to bed until late, late like the sun has said hello, and the ship is just starting to awaken.

You kiss him more than you used to. Not that you mind, because it feels as if before there had been so little time for kisses, so few moments to share like there are now.

Gamma tells bad knock knock jokes and you know Wyoming hates them, but he laughs, and so do you, because who has time to waste not laughing at jokes?

Gamma is like a third part of your relationship, and Wyoming is strained by it. You wonder the things that Gamma whispers to him at night while he walks the ship. You don't like to think about it, because Gamma doesn't own you, and he doesn't own Wyoming.

You stop sleeping too, because it is hard to sleep without Wyoming there to hold, to lean against. It is hard to sleep without a net there to catch you when nightmares occur.

You don't mind Gamma so much, if only he would let Wyoming sleep.

* * *

The sex is slower now, because Wyoming is tired, and you have stopped looking at other men. The sex is sweeter, but you feel no less owned. You still belong to Wyoming and his rough hands and his bushy eyebrows that he refuses to let you near. And you still own him, with your dark eyes and a bed that is just right that has become yours.

He stays in bed with you on nights he pulls Gamma, because those are the only nights he can sleep. You touch his chest and brush his mustache with your fingertips and you breathe deep the smell of his soap, because so rarely now do you get to lay in bed and feel every part of him.

"Reginald."

"Hm?"

"My name is Reginald."

You are slow to smile, but you do, and you close your eyes as you think how well it fits him (how _British_ ), and you think how now you will say his name out loud when you cum.

Wyoming is giving you the keys to his temple, his entire being. He is asking you to own him, just as he has absolutely owned you since day one.

Reginald. You like that.

"Please," you say, hand tracing the muscles of his chest, "Call me Butch."

* * *

Sometimes you feel like Gamma is in your head too, and not just Wyoming's. It drives you mad and makes you wonder if everyone is lying to you.

* * *

You can't remember the last time you shed a tear. It isn't as if you are too cold hearted to cry, there just haven't been moments worth crying over lately.

You are honored that the Director chose you to guard the Alpha, but your chest aches as you think about leaving Wyoming behind, and you loose a few tears when you think about how he will think you are _dead_.

You drink until you can't see, and you kiss Wyoming until you are red in the face.

"Don't ever forget me," you mutter into his ear as you ride him, his hands on your square hips that squeeze you no matter how hard you bounce and roll. You ache to imprint yourself on Wyoming's body, like a weight and a brand, red hot and fiery, and blaze your name into his skin forever. "Don't ever forget me."

Wyoming kisses a path up your jaw until you can't hold yourself back anymore and ravage his mouth. "I could never forget you, Butch."

You shiver when he says your name. "You're the one who owns me. Don't forget me, I'm not dead," you whisper to him, mewling as he makes you cum for the third time that night. "I'm not dead," you repeat, over and over again.

Your brain is like an active mine field and every thought is a step onto an explosion, and all you can do is reassure Wyoming of something he doesn't understand.

Wyoming leans over you when you are done, touching the curls of your chest, and your eyes drop. You are too drunk to pay attention. "I'm not dead," you assure Wyoming, reaching up to cup his cheek and brush your thumb over his mustache. "Don't ever let them make you think I'm dead, Reggie."

You pass out before you can explain. Your last thought is, 'He hates it when people call him that.'

* * *

The last thing you say to Wyoming is "I love you."

It seems fitting, and he says it back, but you feel like there's something missing. There is a fire missing in your eyes and your gut is cold as you tangle your hands in Wyoming's hair as you kiss him, and he grabs you around the middle and your armor is too tight for this to be your last parting forever.

"Agent Florida, must I remind you that you are on the clock." The Director pulls you out of your kiss with his southern drawl.

"Of course, sir. It's been one big rustle of fun with you fellas," you laugh, trying not let your heartache show through. Everyone else is staring with awkward smiles and restless feet and you give them all a salute. "Hopefully I'll be back soon!"

Everyone says goodbye in their own way, you give parting gifts in the form of cookies (gluten free for Wash, who is allergic), and they all wish you well on your undercover mission (how quaint), and you tell them you will come back and play drinking games again soon.

You get on the ship, the ship that is scheduled to be "shot down" upon landing.

* * *

Your first day at Blood Gulch is like any other first day on the job, you suppose.

Well. Maybe not just like any other.

At least there is a rugged, handsome man at the other base with an accent. He holds immediate disdain for you upon seeing your armor and you smile and tell him you're happy to meet him, if only he returned the sentiment. You can feel this turning into a blooming romance, where you are utterly owned once more.

On second though, you aren't sure if you're ready for another one of those quite yet.


End file.
